The Mystique of Instinct
by frombluetored
Summary: After an argument with Clara, Doctor decides to take a trip alone to prove to his companion that he can still manage on his own. He accidentally ends up in the American South in the 1960s, where he meets an echo of Clara who is about as fed up with her life as a housewife as a person can get.


**A/n:** Basically, I decided the fandom needed 1960s repressed housewife Clara/Doctor fic. Real Clara and the Doctor are already together in the fic and have been for a while. This could be considered slightly AU as neither Clara's echo nor the Doctor encounter The Great Intelligence. This is kind of going on the idea that Clara's echoes are sometimes there just to guide the Doctor (like when Gallifreyan!Clara helped the Doctor choose the right TARDIS). I was interested in examining how the Doctor might interact with an echo of Clara now, after the events in tNotD, and I wanted to write something set in this time period and something a little out of my comfort zone. So keep in mind that this was sort of a writing exercise. All feedback and constructive criticism is greatly appreciated :)

* * *

The morning was damp with dew and she was screaming.

She was standing outside just after sunrise, barefoot and still in her ivory pajamas. She could feel the moisture from the frosted grass underfoot muddying up the cuffs, but she couldn't care. She had counted her steps carefully; she knew she was out of earshot from the house. Once she reached far enough, she dug her toes into the damp earth like they would keep her rooted, and let out the shrieks that had been burrowing underneath her tongue all night long.

After screaming until she could scream no more, she pressed the heels of her hands to her forehead and breathed. In three hours, the day began. In three hours, there would be no more screaming or escaping to the land.

Her walks back to the house were slow and measured. Each took a certain amount of will. When her feet finally touched the wooden stairs of her husband's house, it felt like a punishment.

She had her day down to a precise measurement, like ingredients to a recipe. She soaked her muddy pajama bottoms in the washing tub while she ran her bath. She let herself lie in the bath in peace for a total of thirty minutes, and then she was up and going. She clipped her portable hair dryer to her hip and pulled the cap on so her hair could dry while she got out the ingredients and materials for breakfast. She couldn't play music this early, so she hummed her favorite song while she went about her preparations. Once the pancakes were made, she started a pot of coffee and went to wake her children. That took seven minutes on average, and usually she had to carry Ellie to the kitchen table because she had an inability to wake up in the mornings. Dave was more enthusiastic about it. Once the children were in their seats, she put their plates in front of them and then set her husband's place, with a cup of coffee fixed just the way he liked it. Then she had exactly five minutes to get him up and into the kitchen before the coffee became "lukewarm" and therefore worthless. Once he was seated, if his coffee wasn't too cold, she was free to go back to the bedroom and get ready for the day. And then there were ten extra minutes to press a kiss to Dave's head, give him his backpack, accept a kiss from her husband, give them both their already-made lunches, and see them off for the day.

And that was just the beginning.

With just Ellie in the house, the day was much easier. Ellie had just turned four and was getting to the age where she was interested in playing by herself some. She sat at the kitchen table and played with PlayDoh while Clara cleaned up the kitchen. Once it reached ten, Clara let her play out in the front yard. She washed the dishes and peered out the window above the sink, watching her little girl playing with her Barbies in the grass.

She made grilled cheeses for lunch normally, and that was always a rather nice ordeal compared to the disaster of making dinner. She got to listen to The Beatles while she made it (keeping it low enough to listen out for Ellie, of course) and found the experience freeing. After Ellie finished her lunch was normally when things took a turn for the worse. She always got sick of the hot Carolina heat and wanted to play inside a bit, but playing inside normally meant Chatty Cathy.

The doll had been a recent gift from the girl's father. It was a blonde headed doll in cute little dresses who was supposed to say a variety of phrases when you pulled the string on her back, things like "change my dress" and "I love you". Ellie's Chatty Cathy had only said one phrase since day one: "Tell me a story".

For whatever reason, Ellie loved the doll and she loved that request. She'd sit in the living room on the brown carpet and pull that string over and over again, laughing each time. And Clara would press her hands over her ears in the kitchen and take deep breaths. Sometimes, at night, she swore she could hear that voice even though both Ellie and Chatty Cathy were tucked into bed.

But today was different. When Ellie finished her sandwich and glass of sweet tea, she stood up from the table and walked back over to the door. When her chubby hand grabbed the knob, her mother called out, hating herself for it even as she did.

"Why are you going outside, Ellie? Don't you normally play with Chatty Cathy right now?"

Ellie looked a little peeved, her tiny nose scrunching up a bit and her eyebrows furrowing.

"We're in a fight."

And then she walked from the kitchen, the screen door slamming loudly behind her. Clara let out a mixture of a relieved sigh and a bewildered laugh, tossing the dish towel onto the counter. She wasn't sure how you could fight with a doll that literally only said one thing, but as long as she didn't have to hear that stupid request, she was fine with it.

While she could hear Ellie outside playing safely, she walked into the living room quickly and pulled the bookshelf back from the wall. She slid behind it and walked until her foot kicked something, and then she blindly reached down and retrieved the book. She held it close to her chest as she walked into the kitchen, feeling worried even though she knew the house was empty. She propped open the window above the sink, just so she could hear Ellie better, and listened to her talking to herself for a few long moments. Her daughter's happiness was a source of both joy and sorrow for Clara. She loved the beauty Ellie saw in the world and the joy she received from simply living in it, but she was terrified for her daughter to grow up. She didn't want her to end up like she had. She didn't want her to sneak out of the house just to scream.

She began reading at the kitchen table, trying to ignore the nagging voice in her mind that instructed her to spend this time ironing the curtains, and got so involved that she almost missed the commotion outside. The strange noise registered at the back of her mind, but it wasn't until it faded away that she looked up from her book, a little concerned. It was a grinding sound, maybe from some sort of gears, but she had heard neither car nor train make any sound akin to that, and there shouldn't be any cars or trains in hearing distance either.

She rose quickly and hurried to the window, lifting herself up on the counter so she could stick her head out. She scanned the yard anxiously with her eyes, seeing no sign of Ellie or her green floral dress. She didn't even think, she just threw her book down on the counter and sprinted from the house, her heart hammering.

"Ellie! Ellie, answer me!" She screamed. She stood anxiously on the front porch, fiddling with her wedding ring nervously. She scanned the dense forests around the house for any sign of movement, any swish of green fabric, suddenly wishing she'd put her daughter in the pink dress instead. When she spotted a bit of blue to the right of the house, she hurried down the steps. Thinking it must have been some strange man in a blue suit, she took off running again, not even noticing that she was muddying up her white socks this time.

She practically ran right into her daughter. She appeared to come out of nowhere, materializing from behind one of the pines like she hadn't been missing at all. She was smiling widely.

"Mama! A doctor's here!" Ellie told her happily.

She turned and looked to her left, and once Clara had her daughter gripped closely to her side, she followed her gaze. There, in the cool shade of the trees, was a tall, lanky man in a rather outdated suit. He had a defined chin and green eyes that were below very light eyebrows. And he was standing in front of a blue box that had definitely not been in the forest this morning, when Clara walked past this spot on her way to scream amongst the trees.

She reached down and lifted her daughter into her arms, still a little sick from the mental image of losing her. She gripped her close and kissed the side of her head, her heart beating rapidly. The girl was smiling and looked completely unscathed, but the man looked a little sickly. He was staring at Clara like he'd seen a ghost. His face was pale and he was frowning deeply.

Clara knew she should have been extremely unsettled by the man's sudden appearance, but she just found herself slightly intrigued now that she knew her daughter was okay. Maybe that in itself was a sign of how intellectually starved she'd been.

"Who are you?" She demanded. Then: "Did you build an _outhouse_ on my property?" She asked, staring again at the strange wooden box.

The man's features immediately went from distress to shock, and then finally, to insult.

"An _outhouse?_ An _outhouse_?!" He exclaimed. Clara noticed that there was something funny in the way he spoke, but he was being too brief to figure out what that was.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Looks like an outhouse to me."

"Me too." Ellie spoke up.

He turned and faced the box, mumbling something underneath his breath to it that sounded a bit like _you can't blame her for this, it isn't her fault, it's not really her. _

Clara cleared her throat.

"Not to interrupt, but you built an outhouse on my property and kidnapped my daughter. Perhaps this is a good time to start talking."

"Your _what_?" He asked as he spun back around to face her. But then he studied the little girl's face and her mother's and shook his head. "No, nevermind, right." He clapped his hands together and turned to peer at the box for a moment. "I bought this square section of land from the government. For my…house box. It's not an outside toilet. But if you'll just carry on, I'm going to be relocating it tonight."

She finally knew where she'd heard that accent before.

"Are you British?" She blurted out, ignoring his spiel.

"Are you in The Beatles?" Ellie added, her high voice excited.

"Was I in The Beatles? No. Probably not." He answered Ellie. "And…no. Sort of. Kind of. It's complicated."

Clara glared.

"I know it's an astounding concept for men, but women can understand complicated just fine."

He frowned.

"No, it's not that, it's…" he trailed off, eyeing her up and down in a very blatant manner. He seemed confused and bothered about something, but Clara had no idea what that could be seeing as though he was the one who randomly showed up on her property. "Are we in the 1950s?" He asked.

The implied insult angered Clara. She looked down at her Seersucker housedress and then looked back up at him, crossing her arms angrily.

"Well I never!" She gasped. "If anyone's dressed old-fashioned, it's you, outhouse-man!" She pointed an accusing finger at his practically Victorian get up.

"Oi! I look cool!" He argued immediately. But then he shut his eyes tightly for a moment and mumbled something underneath his breath about The Beatles. After a moment, he opened his eyes and let out an _ah-ha!_

"It's the 60s then. I only overshot by a century." He said.

Clara frowned.

"What? You over-what?"

He simply shook his head. He shuffled nervously on his feet, peering around them like he expected something to jump out from behind the trees at any minute.

"Well, lovely to meet you Clara and Ellie, but I really _must_ be going." He said. And then he turned around to head back into his box, but Clara was having none of that.

"Excuse me? You can't just build a random box on my property, take my daughter into the woods, and run off after mumbling something. I want answers. You can give them to me over a pitcher of sweet tea, or you can give them to me through the sheriff. Your choice."

He gulped, turning slowly to face her.

"Sheriff?"

"Yes. He's my brother."

The Doctor clapped his hands.

"Well, tea sounds lovely, then! But just for a few minutes."

Clara kept her daughter in her arms the entire walk back up, ignoring her whispered complaints, and then sent her to her room once they were in the house. It wasn't long after her door shut that Clara heard Chatty Cathy begin her spiel, and she unknowingly visibly flinched. She pulled out the large Mason jar always reserved for guests and poured him a glass, willing herself not to get another headache. She knew it probably wasn't smart for a woman alone in her home to invite a strange man in, but perhaps she was so bored that it was leading to a disregard for her own safety. It was just that she couldn't help but feel like this man wasn't a threat. And she always believed that she could take care of herself, even if her husband insisted time and time again that she couldn't.

When the mysterious man took a sip of the sweet tea, he promptly spat it across the table, his face screwed up in disgust.

"Blimey! What'd you do to this tea?! There's ice in it!" He gasped. He coughed a few times and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

Clara felt anger rise up within her once again. Normally she'd bury that behind a polite smile, but she didn't feel afraid to confront this man. She threw the dish towel from the counter at him and glared.

"You might be the rudest man I've ever met!" She snapped. "Nothing's wrong with my tea! Who are you?!"

"_This_ isn't tea." He insisted. He glared at the jar and pushed it across the table. "And you can call me the Doctor. Why are you here anyway? Why are you in the American South in the 1960s?"

Clara observed him with suspicious eyes, not quite following his line of questioning.

"Where else would I be? I've lived here my entire life." She told him. "The better question is where did you come from? And what kind of name is _the Doctor_?"

He waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, around. London…ish. And it's a nickname." His eyes scanned around the kitchen, almost as if he were searching for a change of topic. He grinned widely when his eyes landed on something, and when Clara turned to follow his line of vision, she felt her heart drop. She reached over and grabbed the book quickly, tucking it into the pockets of her apron protectively.

"_The Feminine Mystique_," the man acknowledged.

Clara lifted her chin defensively and waited for what she knew was coming.

"An amazing, transformative work. It's a very iconic part of this time period." He said thoughtfully. "What do you think about it so far?"

It made Clara a little uncomfortable the way he spoke of the present, like it was really the past. But all of that was overridden by the shock she felt at those words. She had to keep the book hidden from her husband and father and brothers like her life depended on it, but this man—the Doctor—seemed to actually _respect_ it. She felt the muscles in her back losing some of their tension.

"It's starting to feel like an idealized dream. Like a fairytale I might read to Ellie." Clara said, a little bitterly.

The man smiled almost reassuringly.

"It won't seem like a fairytale forever. You'll live long enough to see life improve for women as long as you stay away from men like me."

Those words should have been warning signs for her, but all Clara wanted to tell him was that he couldn't be any worse than her husband. She knew that was true, even if she'd only known this man for a few minutes. He spoke to her in a way that men usually didn't, like he respected her opinions.

"It's too late to steer clear of men. I'm married." She told him, and she knew her tone made it clear that that wasn't what she wanted.

His eyebrows rose a bit in surprise, but his expression smoothed back out a moment later.

"Really? Who's the lucky man?"

Clara felt sick at those words.

"He's a man who would introduce himself as unlucky." She said sourly.

The Doctor frowned deeply. "Can't say I like the sound of that, Clara."

She just shrugged, because he was a stranger (even if he somehow didn't feel quite like one), and there was nothing to be done about it. This was what a woman did. This was her life and there wasn't anything to be done about. She had illusions of running away, of leaving this suppressed life behind, but she couldn't and wouldn't abandon her children. She loved them more than anything in the entire world, far more than her own freedom. And the chances of her somehow being able to support them on her own were miniscule.

The Doctor seemed edgy. He kept peering nervously around the kitchen, like he was expecting someone to arrive. And Clara watched him quietly from the side, suddenly overcome by a nagging feeling that told her she'd met him before. She examined his face intently, running her eyes over his features that seemed so familiar and yet so new. After a minute or two of this examination, the Doctor locked eyes with her.

"Do I know you?" She asked him curiously. These words made the Doctor frown. "I can't think of ever having seen you anywhere, but I feel like…" but the moment passed a second later, leaving her feeling awkward and foolish. She shook her head quickly. "No, never mind, I'm just being silly."

She turned her back and reached up for a cup, just to give her hands something to do. Her headache was returning. As she poured herself a glass of sweet tea, she listened to the sound of his fingers drumming against the top of the kitchen table.

"I'm sorry I was on your property." He finally spoke up. "I was just looking for a quiet place to camp. I'll leave soon. I shouldn't be here. But your daughter ran into the woods when she heard my box…getting put up, and when she asked me who I was and I told her 'the Doctor', she asked me if I was here for you."

Clara closed her eyes and sighed.

"Why would she think you needed a doctor?" He continued.

Clara cleared her expression and then turned back around. She took a sip from her glass and appraised the Doctor. He looked genuinely concerned about her, and Clara couldn't understand why. Just like she couldn't understand why she felt this ease around him, like it was natural to be sharing a conversation with him.

"I get headaches is all." She told him shortly.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Headaches bad enough that your young child notices them?"

She shrugged.

"Stress headaches."

The Doctor appeared torn. He started to rise from the table, only to sit back down and then try to rise again. Clara watched him with a confused expression.

"Why are you camping in a wooden box in the woods?" She asked him. It was still bothering her.

The Doctor seemed to have decided to stay. He gestured for her to take a seat across from him. After a moment's hesitation, Clara joined him at the table. His eyes were soft as they met hers.

"Why are you with a husband that you don't love?" He asked, avoiding her question.

She was absolutely affronted this time. She leaned back in her chair as far from him as she could get and avoided his eyes.

"Who said I didn't love my husband? I don't even know you from Adam! You can't just come in my home and…and say that I…" she trailed off angrily, her words failing her, because she knew he was right.

He reached forward and grasped her hands from across the table. When his thumb began caressing the backs of her hands, she suddenly felt even more uncomfortable, because she felt her heart rate rising and a strange tingling beginning in the pit of her stomach. She lifted her eyes cautiously and peered up at the stranger across her table, who had eyes that she trusted, who had hands that she felt she'd held before.

Terrified of her own body's reaction to his simple touch, she snatched her hands away from his. She reminded herself over and over that he was a stranger in her head, but even when she started to try and tell him to leave, she couldn't get the words to come out.

"I don't get it." He told her gently. His eyes were pinned to hers, his gaze intense and imploring. "You're smart, so very clever, I know that. And you're brave and funny and so warmhearted. Why would you stay with a man who doesn't treat you right?"

But his words made no sense to her, because the way her husband treated her was the way every husband treated his wife. She was the one who had fault, because all of her friends seemed to have no problem accepting their "place" in society. She was the malfunctioned one, who hid _The Feminist Mystique _behind bookshelves and read it every day like the Bible, who waited until her husband was asleep at night to hide in the closet and cry, who asked herself every single morning _is this all there is?_

"You don't know me." She told him uneasily.

His smile was so warm and loving that it made her heart clench. She doubted her own words and he hadn't even said anything to try and persuade her against them.

"Do you sometimes feel like you've done all of this before, Clara?" He asked her.

She stared at him.

"Everyone gets déjà vu." She said dismissively.

"How often do _you_ get it?" He pressed.

She was silent. Most of her headaches were from the intensity of her déjà vu, but she'd never mentioned that to anyone before.

"Do you sometimes find yourself missing things, but aren't quite sure what exactly it is you're missing?" He asked again.

She was uncomfortable to the point of distress.

"Who are you?" She asked him again. "Why are you asking me all this?"

He leaned in a little closer, and Clara hated that she wanted to lean in too. She hated that when his hands found hers once again, she felt that same twinge of pleasure in her stomach just from his touch.

"I'm just very good at reading people." He told her with an almost sad smile. He gave her hand a squeeze. "It was good to meet you, Clara. I mean that, I really do. I'm going to leave you alone now, but I want you to remember that you're worth more than what they make you believe. You're a magnificent, impossible girl. Keep reading that book and keep fighting for what you believe in. Take care of yourself."

When he rose from his chair, Clara couldn't understand why it made her heart ache. She didn't know why the sight of him walking out of the door made her feel panicky and alone.

"Wait!" She called after him. "Doctor!"

He stopped in the doorway and turned to face her. She rose up from the chair and walked over to him, trying not to reach out to touch him, even though she wanted to. She realized that she found him beautiful. Her head was aching worse than it ever had before.

"I think I've seen you in a dream once." She told him. She pressed a hand to her forehead and let out a tiny gasp of pain.

"And I you." He replied, almost ardently. He reached up and set his fingers to her forehead gently, as if to brush away the pain. Clara was beginning to panic because nothing was making sense to her.

"I don't know you but I don't want you to go. And I don't understand how that is." She said.

She'd never believed in fairytales, or true love, or love at first sight, but something was happening to her that she didn't understand. She just knew that she felt suddenly and inexplicably tied to this man, like he was what she'd been waiting for her entire life.

The Doctor seemed torn again, wavering between two different decisions. After a moment, he seemed to give into a war inside of himself. His fingers drifted down from her forehead to caress her cheek lightly, and she felt her cheeks warming underneath his touch.

"What's your full name, Clara?" He asked her.

It seemed like an odd question to ask in the middle of her emotionally charged admittance.

"It was Clara Belle Oswin. But I'm Clara Belle Jones now." She answered.

"I'd like to talk to you again, Clara Oswin. Come tonight." He invited.

Clara knew she shouldn't. Her cheeks were still flushed and her heart was still racing, and her head was splitting, and her mind was tangled, but none of that seemed to matter suddenly.

"Okay. I will." She told him.

The last she saw of him that afternoon was his elated smile as turned and walked away.

* * *

Her headache only grew as the night drew on. When Dave returned home from school, she helped him with his homework and then sent him and Ellie outside to play while she prepared dinner. It was a two hour ordeal most nights, as Robert always demanded everything to be fresh and cooked from scratch. By the time he walked in the door, his factory uniform bringing in the smell of chemicals and wood, his plate was already made and waiting for him at the table.

She felt his eyes on her as she brought his beer over to him. He took a swig of it before anything else, and then snaked an arm around her hips. He pressed a kiss right above her hipbone, and Clara stared at the wall, impatient to be let go of so she could call the kids in for dinner before their plates got cold. She grew even more irritated as his grip only tightened. He slid his arm down, his hand obviously heading for her ass, when he suddenly stopped. Clara felt his hand change course, heading for the front of her apron, and she felt her heart jump to her throat when he stuck his hand inside the pocket.

He pulled the book out, holding it so tightly in his hand that his nails were white. She didn't risk looking down at him.

"What is this?" He asked her, his voice deep and controlled.

Clara closed her eyes and took a deep breath before slowly moving out of his grasp. She turned to face him and met his angry glance.

"A book." She said shortly.

He turned his gaze to the book and flipped open the front cover, thumbing through a few pages of it. Clara felt dizzy.

"Are you getting bored at home, Clara? Do you need to start a new baking club?" He asked her, once he looked back up. "I'm worried about you. Your boredom is leading you down dark paths. Idle hands are the Devil's handiwork."

She wanted to tell him that reading kept her busy, but she knew that wasn't something she was in line to say without causing a huge argument that she had no chance of winning. She kept her mouth shut.

He turned an accusing eye her way. "Do you not love our family?" He demanded.

Clara felt like she'd been slapped by that accusation. After all she'd sacrificed for them, how dare he ask that question.

"Of course I love my family. You know I do." She told him.

He slammed the book down angrily. It made the liquid inside his bottle of beer slosh back and forth, and Clara watched it as he grew angrier, feeling like she was rocking back and forth like that as well.

"I won't have my wife reading this in my house. I won't have you getting ideas." He told her. "Tom Miller's wife started getting ideas and she left him and their three sons. Do you think I want that? Do you think I want you gone? Do you think Dave and Ellie want you gone?"

Clara tried.

"It's just a book, Robert." She whispered.

"NO IT IS NOT!" He yelled. Clara flinched back, her ears ringing. "It's trash and I won't stand for it! You aren't allowed to read this or anything like it underneath my roof, do you understand?!"

She said nothing. She watched as he rose from his chair and walked from the kitchen. She followed after him apprehensively, wondering if maybe he was going to hit her. He hadn't ever done that before, but she knew of many husbands who did. When she saw him sitting in front of the fireplace, she withdrew from the room and went back into the kitchen. She didn't need to see it burning. The smell filled the small house quickly enough.

Inside the kitchen, she found both her children watching her from the doorway, their faces a bit frightened. She knew they must have heard the yelling from the front porch. She pulled them into her arms quickly, giving them each a kiss on the forehead.

"Everything's okay. I love you." She reassured them. "Go to the table before your food gets cold."

Dinner that night was silent. Robert tried to force small talk with Dave, but Ellie and Clara were silent and Dave seemed a little cold towards his father. Clara had always known her children loved her better than they loved their father, but she'd always tried to keep it equal for Robert's sake. They were affectionate children who never quite understood the way their father worked. They understood that their mother loved them, because she always held them and kissed them and reassured them at night when they were scared, but they couldn't make sense of their father's aloof attitudes or bursts of anger.

Robert went into his study after dinner like he always did to smoke and drink whisky. Clara and the children made a fort out of sheets in the den and curled up together with mugs of hot chocolate. She read them _Little House in the Big Wood_s, all the while aware that they both wanted to know what the yelling had been about before dinner, but that neither of them would dare ask for fear of being rude.

After they were bathed and tucked into bed, she went into each of their rooms and gathered each child into her arms.

"I love you so much." She told them both.

But after she turned out Dave's lights, she returned to Ellie's room for a second time and sat back down on the edge of her bed. She smoothed her daughter's hair back.

"Ellie, you can do anything you want when you're older. You can be whoever you want. You know that, right?"

The only light came from the dim glow of the moon leaking through the open window. Her daughter looked up at her with such innocence and ease that Clara could only smile at her.

"I wanna be just like you when I grow up, Mama." Ellie told her.

Later, once she was alone in the bathroom, Clara cried. Because that's exactly what she'd wanted to be when she was little, too.

That night, when her husband came to bed, he pulled her body close to his. He nuzzled her neck and kissed her mouth, and Clara could feel his arousal pressing against her, but she felt nothing but annoyance for him. She couldn't recall a time when she'd felt anything but that if she was being honest to herself.

She was still furious about his reaction to that book, as well as saddened by it, but it was obvious he wouldn't give it another thought ever again. To him, the problem was solved. He put his wife back in her place and disposed of the book, and Clara could sense that he felt she would never stray again. But she was growing restless and furious, and she wasn't sure how much longer she could live like this. That book had been her reassurance. It was her reminder that she wasn't the only one out there who felt like women deserved more. She'd wanted to be so much more when she was a teenager. She'd wanted to go to college, but instead she ended up pregnant, married, and trapped. She ended up a shell of herself, unable to remember who she really was. Sometimes she felt so faded that she wondered if she'd ever been anyone to begin with. Whenever these thoughts plagued her, she could only think of a line from _The Feminine Mystique _that was a truth she didn't want to admit about herself: "There is no other way she can even dream about herself, except as her children's mother, her husband's wife."

Normally at night, she just closed her eyes and pretended to care about her husband's sexual advances. But as he began sucking on her neck and pulling her body against his, all she could think about was the Doctor and the way she felt when he took her hands in his. Somehow, that contact, as innocent as it was, felt more intimate than anything her husband was doing.

When he rolled over on top of her, his hand sliding up her nightgown, she suddenly turned her face away.

"Robert," she whispered. He made a noncommittal sound. "I'm not feeling so well."

He rolled off of her and turned to examine her face.

"Like how? Another headache?" His tone made it clear that he wasn't impressed by her so-called migraines.

"No. I'm feeling sick to my stomach." She lied.

She could tell he was angry. He rolled over, his back to her, and didn't say anything else. And honestly, that was the way she preferred it.

She left the bedroom, knowing he'd think she was heading to the kitchen for a glass of water. She tiptoed through the living room and opened the back door slowly, mindful of the creaks. And then she was running barefoot across the grass.

The Doctor's box was still where she'd seen it last, hidden amongst the trees. She felt so relieved to see it there that she immediately smiled, the pressure in her chest receding. She didn't care that she was in her nightgown, or that she'd just run from her husband to meet a man she'd only just met in the woods. She just cared that he hadn't disappeared.

He walked from the box, and she wasn't sure how he knew she was there. The moonlight cloaked him in gentle, white light that made his features even more angular and alluring. He smiled at her like he'd never been happier to see anyone in his life. She wanted to smile back, but it didn't quite make it onto her face.

"I was worried you wouldn't come." He called to her.

She came to a stop in front of him. She was self-conscious about how she must look, not physically, but emotionally. She knew he could see both of those elements of her with ease by the way he peered at her. His hand reached up to cup her cheek again as he frowned.

"What's happened?" He asked her. She merely glanced away, suddenly afraid she was going to cry.

Five minutes later, they were sitting on a blanket underneath the dark forest canopy. The Doctor had disappeared into his box for a few moments after his initial question and returned with a blanket and picnic basket. After offering her some shortbread cookies, he took one himself and waited. She could tell he knew she'd talk eventually, and he was right.

"Robert found that book." She told him. She felt her eyes burning. It had been so difficult to get that copy to begin with. They lived in a town where everyone knew everyone, so she couldn't just walk to the book store and ask the vender to order her a copy. Her original copy had come from a friend up north, hidden in a package of fabrics. It was a gift. She was certain now that she'd never get another copy and that, eventually, she'd forget that anyone else had dared to say the things she wanted to scream. She'd fade into the background like everyone else.

The Doctor touched the back of her hand in concern.

"Did he hurt you?" He asked.

Clara couldn't meet his eyes.

"He didn't hit me." She answered quietly.

A second later, the Doctor leaned forward and gently lifted her chin. He stared seriously into her eyes, his sad and ancient.

"That isn't what I asked." He said gently. "Not all wounds are physical."

She knew that to be true more than anything else. She leaned her back against the wooden box, somehow feeling she could trust this man enough to tell him any thought that had ever crossed her mind, as if he somehow knew them already.

"Sometimes I just feel so bad because I can't believe this is all there is to life. I love my children, I do, but I can't help but feel like there's more I could be doing in the world in addition to being their mother." She said. "I wanted to study, to travel, to work. I wanted to do so much more than I'll ever be able to. I feel as if my life is already ending."

His hand was warm against her calf. It made her skin tingle. He gazed at her with intensity.

"This doesn't have to be all. If you want to study, study. Don't let anyone stop you. If you want to travel, or work, do it." He said. "You can do anything you want. You can be anything you want. You're impossible that way."

His thumb was caressing circles against her thigh mindlessly, as if he always touched her this way. The contact didn't seem odd to Clara. If anything, it felt like walking into your home after being away for a very long while. And that frightened her.

She rose abruptly, her heart rate steadily increasing.

"It's late. I should go." She said, even though that was the opposite from what she wanted.

He rose too, his expression almost one of sadness.

"Don't forget to remember that you're a person all on your own, Clara. You should take care of Clara. Not Robert's wife or Ellie and Dave's mother. Just Clara."

And then he offered her a smile, one that caused another bout of déjà vu for her, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant, like it was some sort of beautiful memory trying to claw its way back into her mind. She met his eyes, and something shifted inside of her without warning. She didn't remember making any conscious decisions. One minute she was standing there, her feet sticking to the dry pine straw, and the next she was crossing the distance between them and throwing her arms around his neck.

He hugged her tightly, pressing his body flush against hers, and Clara felt something stirring in her stomach that she knew had been building all day since she saw him. She breathed hot against his neck, her heart pounding a rhythm in her chest, and realized she was going to kiss him. It wasn't a matter of decision, only a matter of instinct. Her lips sought out his and he responded with a passion she hadn't anticipated fully. After a few moments of gentle kissing, he parted his lips and caressed her bottom lip with his tongue, his hand working its way up her nightgown like her husband had tried to do only a few minutes ago. But this time she was encouraging it.

She parted her lips too, her breath catching in the back of her throat at the sensations his tongue on her tongue caused. When he flipped them around, so she was pressed between him and the wall to his strange box, she felt him against her, all warmth and hardness. But instead of shying away, she reached around him and pulled him closer, so he was pressing his groin into hers.

His mouth broke away from hers at the contact. He rested his cheek against hers and breathed heavily, his heart beating so quickly in his chest that Clara could see his pulse jumping in his neck. When Clara pressed her hand to his chest, his heartbeat felt strange to her, but she was too worked up to figure out why or how.

"Clara," he whispered. "Does this feel good?"

She tightened her arms around his neck and he seemed to get what she wanted, like they'd been doing this for years. He lifted her up, letting her latch her legs around his middle, and they both let out breathy gasps when she ground down over him.

"Yes," she answered him, her voice a little choked.

He held her ass, keeping her safe in his arms, and pressed his face against her neck as she moved again, and again. He kissed the area where her neck met her shoulder, and Clara had never known that was a sensitive spot for her, but she let out a small moan when he did.

"Good," he whispered into her skin, and he sounded so desperately happy that she could only clutch him closer. "You deserve to feel good in every life you live. You deserve to be loved right no matter what name you go by. My Clara."

The possessiveness of that title made her head ache, her heart ache, and the spot between her legs ache. It felt more like her name that Clara Oswin did, and she was desperate to hear it again. She moved against his arousal with renewed vigor, her head spinning and her body feeling strangely weightless, like she were floating somewhere in space with this insane man.

"When we have sex tonight, it's going to feel like making love. Why do I know that?" She breathed, but she didn't much care for the answer.

He leaned her against the wall of that box for a moment, long enough to slide his hands underneath her underwear so he was gripping her bare ass. She inhaled sharply, suddenly feeling that she might explode.

"It will be making love." He told her. "You and I both know it, even if you don't understand why, or how."

And he was right. When they fell onto the blanket, and frantically pulled away all clothing in the way, he pushed into her in a way that made her feel whole instead of uncomfortably crowded. She dug her nails into his shoulders and he pressed kisses anywhere he could reach, his every movement screaming that he loved her, and he was right to say that she didn't understand it. But she felt it. And he seemed to know exactly how to move inside of her and exactly how to touch her. When he gently kissed her ear, he began whispering promises, his voice deep and almost a little lost.

"I'll show you the stars, Clara. I love you, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

She didn't care what he was sorry for, because at that moment she really was seeing galaxies behind her eyes. She had to press her lips against his shoulder to keep from screaming out, and he followed shortly after, his breaths coming out in strangled gasps. Somewhere in the midst of the fall, she'd given him words she hadn't even given her husband in a long time. _I love you, too. _And she no longer cared that she didn't know why.

Their skin was damp and their hearts still racing. He held her close to him, her head resting against his chest and his arm around her. Peacefully, she made an observation.

"You have two hearts."

She listened to the double-beating, her lips curved up into a smile. It sounded so right that it didn't seem odd to her at all, and she felt she almost knew it already. His hands stroked her back, her thighs, the dip of her waist. He kissed the top of her head.

"Does that bother you?" He asked.

She gripped him closer.

"No, it doesn't. It should, but it doesn't." She replied. She kept her eyes shut as she listened to the sound of the crickets and bull frogs in the distance. "I won't ever see you again, will I?" She asked him idly.

He pressed his cheek against the top of her head.

"No, I'm afraid you probably won't." He told her.

She understood this and felt no anger, no sadness. She felt only peace.

"You never did tell me why you were camping in a wooden box." She teased him.

She didn't have to look at him to know he was smiling. When he began speaking, his words echoed in his chest.

"I'm camping because I got into a fight with someone I love. She's getting a house, and I wanted her to move in with me, but she refused. She accused me of being too dependent on her, and to prove to her that I wasn't, I told her I was going to take a trip without her." He stopped talking then and Clara could feel his gaze. His next words were laced with affectionate disbelief. "I guess it's impossible to go anywhere without her."

Clara didn't know where the words came from, but they were there, like they'd always been inside of her just waiting to be given to this man.

"I don't think she's worried about you getting too dependent on her. It sounds like she's worried about getting too dependent on you."

The Doctor looked down at her, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

"That does seem very her." He admitted.

Clara felt no jealousy for the girl he was talking about. She felt no resentment for what had just happened. She felt only tranquility.

"Maybe she's afraid she'll get close only to end up getting abandoned."

Instinctively, Clara knew she was right.

"But she has to know how I feel about her. She has to know that I'd never leave her. I risked my life for her." The Doctor argued, sounding deeply distressed by the idea that that woman could doubt his love for her.

Clara knew his _I love you_ hadn't been for her, not really. It'd been for the girl he was speaking of, someone that perhaps was her in a way that Clara couldn't quite figure out.

"Have you ever told her you love her?" She asked him.

The Doctor pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I just did." He said.

The pain in Clara's head spiked and then retreated, leaving her scrambling to gather the thought that just got scattered away. And maybe it was because she was trying so hard to remember that thought that she said her next words, without even understanding them herself.

"The real her."

A few moments passed, with Clara fighting back her blinding headache and the Doctor thinking. Then he took her face in his hands and kissed her. He rested his forehead against hers.

"Oh, my Clara. You always lead me home and you always save me. I only wish I could do the same for you." He murmured.

She stroked his hair back, her heart still warmed from his words from earlier. She knew she wouldn't forget them.

"You do." She promised him.

* * *

When the Doctor returned to the Maitland's house, he was both happy and sad.

He was overjoyed to see his real Clara again, but sad to have known and lost another version of her, even if this version hadn't died. But he knew she'd be okay. She was Clara; she was always okay.

He rang the doorbell a couple of times before Angie greeted him.

"Oh, good. I was afraid I was going to have to help her carry her boxes down." She greeted. "Clara! Your boyfriend's here!" She yelled up the stairs.

The Doctor hurried up before she could come down. He opened the door and walked up, closing it behind him. Clara's room was an empty vessel now, filled only with packed up boxes and a mattress. Clara looked a little oddly at him after his sudden entrance.

"I thought you were leaving to prove you could travel alone?" She asked.

He'd arrived only a few minutes after his sulky departure. Clara lifted an eyebrow at him, a smirk on her face, but the Doctor couldn't speak due to the affection rising inside of him. He hurried over to her and pulled her into his arms. He lowered them both down onto the mattress behind her, his body covering hers almost protectively, and he kissed her deeply. He stroked her stomach underneath her shirt and then kissed her cheek, her nose, her forehead.

"I can't go anywhere without you." He admitted to her. "And I don't want to."

Her hair was spread out wildly around her, like some sort of halo, and she was breathing heavily. She studied him intently, her eyes hiding a hint of vulnerability.

"Do you really mean that?" She asked him.

He buried his face against her neck, resuming his kissing.

"_Yes_," he breathed, "I love you. I'm sorry I've never said it before. It's difficult for me to say, so I just assume the people I care about can read between the lines. But you deserve to know it. You deserve to know that you're my Clara. And I'll never abandon you. I'll always be your home."

After a few more moments of enthusiastic kissing, Clara lifted herself up onto her elbows and peered at the Doctor with a sudden understanding showing on her face.

"Doctor, where did you go visit?" She asked him. "Or more specifically, _when_?"

He stroked her hair back from her face. "I was aiming for the 1860s."

She grinned slyly. "Oh Chin Boy, no wonder you're so handsy."

"I'm always handsy. You're very…touchable." He explained. But he could tell by her mischievous smile that she knew where he'd just been.

"I thought you didn't remember all of your past lives?" He asked her curiously.

"I don't. But that's certainly one that I do remember." She said. "Although I never asked you about it because I wasn't sure if it was a dream or not…"

He relaxed down beside her and pulled her into his arms.

"How'd that life end up?" He asked. "Do you remember?"

She shut her eyes briefly and thought. After a moment, a small smile spread out on her face. The Doctor was helpless to do anything but kiss her again.

"Just fine, in the end. She—I? Oh, whatever—left Robert and opened a seamstress shop. I remember Ellie and Dave ended up happy too."

That news made the Doctor blissfully happy for a moment in time. He liked to think that he could make Clara happy in every life she had been forced to live for his sake, but he knew that wasn't possible, so even one victory meant a lot to him.

"I'm glad." He told her.

They stayed curled up together in silence for a few more moments, both lost in memories from that brief encounter, until Clara spoke up.

"Fine. I'll come live with you in your Snogbox." She told him, heaving a fake sigh for good measure. "But only if we have sex like that again."

That was an ultimatum he could handle.


End file.
